


Moving Mountains

by Ki_ru



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Anal Sex, Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Cheating, Dubious Consent, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Human Montagne, I swear parts of it are sweet, I'm sorry for causing pain, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Incubus Bandit, Kissing, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending, Stockholm Syndrome, some depends on interpretation, very brief bandit/doc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-25 17:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16201949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru/pseuds/Ki_ru
Summary: The promise is enticing and exciting, causing his pulse to race and his lips to part in preparation of agreeing – hope blooms in his chest and evokes the one belief he never quite gave up throughout his life: that there’smore. More to life, more than their senses can perceive, more than humanity will ever know. It’s a childish conviction and only leads to disillusionment when the hope turns out to be in vain, and yet he can’t let it go. Especially not when rosy lips imply for it to be true.Monty catches a demon's eye but neither of the two expect what eventually develops between them.(Now additionally with an alternate ending which is 100x happier!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】Moving Mountain by Ki_ru](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19125334) by [Einleben](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Einleben/pseuds/Einleben)



> Thanks a bunch to [Vindito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vindito/pseuds/vindito) for churning out a few drawings which solidified my resolve to write Demon!Bandit/Human!Monty. I originally intended for it to be lighter and fluffier but the premise offered more than I realised :)  
> Also please forgive me but it's now my firm belief that Monty is called Gilles Montgomery Touré in real life, thus legitimising my calling him Monty in this fic. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing!  
> (If you don't want to read the original bittersweet ending, simply go to the next chapter after the very last proper break, indicated by the ~*~)

They meet at his engagement party.

Most of it feels like a dream: waltzing over the dance floor, the woman in his arms with whom he will spend the rest of his life, listening to anecdotes of his childhood told by his mother until everyone has tears of laughter in their eyes, reminiscing with close friends about sins of their youth as well as planning endlessly for his future, _their_ future. They’re hoping to buy a house which is a perfectly viable option with their double income, and Catou’s face lights up every time she mentions needing ‘enough room’, a promising sparkle in her eyes which is reciprocated by Monty himself, already imagining small versions of both of them running around and filling the space between their walls with squeals of laughter – their growth mirroring the progress their parents will make as they experience the joy of watching someone they gave life to prosper and bloom.

There’s a foreign body. Someone not affected by the exuberant atmosphere, by the beauty surrounding all other participants, by the happiness shared and thus amplified, multiplied. He drifts along the edges of Monty’s vision, circling the other guests like a vulture waiting for its prey to stop breathing. It’s just another stranger, probably a friend of a friend, someone’s plus one who somehow eluded the hosts entirely and didn’t deem it necessary to introduce himself. His face is impassive yet attentive, dark eyes flit back and forth, drawn to movement and noise and though Monty attempts to study him more closely out of curiosity, the stranger seems to vanish into thin air as soon as looks at him directly. Like a speck of light in darkness, he’s only visible out of the corner of his eye.

At least until they meet at the bar.

Monty is ordering for Catou who’s currently engaged in friendly conversation with his sister and he’s loath to interrupt the bonding, therefore he’s alone, unguarded, and suddenly notices someone by his elbow. An intense glare bores into his skull as soon as he turns, the casual stance crassly at odds with the unblinking eyes fixed on him, compelling him to return the uncomfortably sharp gaze even though something inside him cowers in fear, rings alarm bells, tugs at his limbs to get away from this man as soon as possible.

He’s striking. Not in the sense of being overly handsome, not at all, normally he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd but there’s something accompanying him. Monty’s nerves sing as if whatever innate aura surrounds this person resonated with them, as if he could funnel and focus Monty’s attention purely by existing. He’s painfully vivid, glowing and leaving behind an imprint on Monty’s retina, feeling worryingly _real_ compared to the blurred quality of the rest of the evening. Monty knows it all seems phantasmagoric because it’s too good to be true, it’s everything he could ever want – this man, however, stands out against it like a dark silhouette in front of an empty canvas.

“You deserve more”, he says and only now does Monty notice the way his lips are curling knowingly.

 _I deserve more_ , Monty repeats in his head, mulling the words over as if they were a riddle. He refuses to admit they strike a chord deep down because he’s long understood it serves no purpose to dream big, instead it’s much more fulfilling to recognise the beauty in everyday life, in all that happens around him, be grateful for every little thing. No one can afford to _seek_ their whole life, no one can chase their dreams to the end and actually catch them. That’s not how life works. “What do you mean?”, he finds himself asking with a dry throat.

The smile widens. “She’s not going to make you happy. She’s going to make you rot. You’re going to perish before you’re thirty-five and you won’t even notice. You’ll be alive. But you won’t _live_.”

Indignation has no time to flare up, he can’t even begin to object to the words because an overpowering need hits him out of nowhere, a carnal desire knocking all the air out of his lungs and swarming his mind with a variety of unbidden imagery, as alien as they are vulgar though what should fill him with disgust and repulsion instead holds a fierce fascination, an almost violent urge to give in, give himself to the man in front of him. It’s never happened before, not even with women, that his eyelids flutter and his crotch tingles and breathing becomes a chore. Being apart from him _hurts_ , ice spreads in his lungs and can only be melted by inhaling his scent – and yet he’s paralysed, unable to act on impulse. It’s wrong. He can’t do this. He shouldn’t experience any of this, he loves Catou, dearly loves her.

Under his gaze, pupils dilate and the smile fades into a meaningful smirk as the stranger leans in, invades his space without touching a single hair of his though Monty wishes so fiercely he would. His proximity tickles like electricity and his voice rasps over Monty’s skin when he whispers: “I can show you. Do you want to know what it feels like? To really _live_?”

Yes. The promise is enticing and exciting, causing his pulse to race and his lips to part in preparation of agreeing – hope blooms in his chest and evokes the one belief he never quite gave up throughout his life: that there’s _more_. More to life, more than their senses can perceive, more than humanity will ever know. It’s a childish conviction and only leads to disillusionment when the hope turns out to be in vain, and yet he can’t let it go. Especially not when rosy lips imply for it to be true.

He pictures it, feels the temptation of something _new_ , something blindingly bright in its uniqueness, an experience he can carry close to his heart and take to his grave. This secret won’t weigh him down, it will elevate him, strengthen his confidence as it’s only for _him_ , finally something for him and him only, always in the back of his mind when someone tries to belittle him – he’s better than that, he has his memories to prove it, memories of… of naked skin, of an unfamiliar body against his, of – cheating? Of betraying trust?

His brows furrow and his mind clears. The moment has passed and all it leaves behind is a dropped veil and the faint fragrance of something too sweet to be pleasant. Now that he can evaluate the whole picture, it seems insane to him, undesirable, even foul. Monty takes a look at the expectant features in front of him and while they’re still remarkable, they hold none of their previous allure. “Thank you”, he replies with a voice which barely sounds like his own, “but no. I’m content with what I have.”

A calculating gaze follows him when he grabs the two glasses who must’ve appeared before him at some point during their interaction, but the man says no more. His body language is relaxed, a good sign, and he’s not holding him back. It seems their strange meeting is over.

When he returns to his future wife, she takes one look at him and asks whether anything happened. For a second, he fears she might be able to see right through him, that the guilt he’s trying so hard to bury deep inside shows on his face like a stigma, but when he reassures her shakily, she seems appeased and continues her conversation. It’s as if nothing happened.

Monty looks back. The slim figure has vanished again.

 

Gustave is one of his dearest friends though they haven’t shared a lot of their time or achievements with each other in the past years – regardless, meeting with him always makes it seem as if no time had passed whatsoever, it’s open smiles and slaps on the back and genuine inquiries as to health and general well-being. He’s currently single and not looking for anyone yet if he was, it’d be an intelligent woman who’s not afraid to speak her mind.

Which is why it’s odd that Gustave is currently dragging another man with him to the bathroom.

Monty only spots the back of the companion’s head but it’s enough to convince him of his identity which makes the gesture all the more peculiar. He’s unsure what these two would have to talk about, leaving only one interpretation as ridiculous as it is far-fetched, therefore Monty asks around and learns that it was Gustave who brought the noteworthy stranger along – though they hardly spoke a word to each other the whole evening. Odd. Exceedingly odd.

When the two haven’t surfaced after several minutes, Monty decides to investigate. He trusts Gustave’s opinions concerning people as he’s an excellent judge of character, so he’d be astonished if the man turned out to be a troublemaker after all. Maybe his sense of humour is simply a little… unwieldy and ill-timed. He makes his way through the crowd of guests, exchanging smiles and friendly phrases all of which die a quick death the moment he steps into the long, brightly-lit room.

At first, what he believes to see finds no space in his mind, has too many sharp edges to fit without causing damage, but it takes no more than a few heartbeats to recognise and accept the reality of it. His eyes, unable to focus on one thing as they’re attracted by motions yet shy away from what they land on, jump from an expression that could be either ecstatic pleasure or vicious pain to a place where the unspeakable is happening to a tongue flattening against an exposed back, seemingly attempting to lick up the ink weaving its way over the pale skin, only to land on a piercing glare directed at no one but him.

“Wanna join?”, comes the quiet challenge from swollen lips, the smooth purr at odds with his posture – his head is propped up next to the sink, making him look bored with what’s happening directly behind him, and if what Monty can spot between his legs is an indication, he’s not particularly enjoying himself. There’s a thin, crimson line making its way down a creamy thigh.

Gustave doesn’t hurt people. He’s not interested in men. None of this should be true, none of this should be happening and yet it is, quite obviously, with no explanation. Monty’s friend is wholly engrossed to the point where he hasn’t once looked up, face contorted strangely and his movement almost desperate where his partner seems to be a perfect opposite.

For a moment, the pull returns, more insistent this time, inviting Monty to step inside and indeed cast aside all inhibitions, discard who he thinks he is and let loose, allow instincts to guide him and resort to the most natural urge of all. Indulging in fantasies is the purest form of self-expression, isn’t it? Why should he have to hold back, conform to expectations and norms imposed on him by an oppressive society which is condemning him for something he’s always wanted, something he’s – always wished for? … _This_? A few minutes of letting go leading to a lifetime of shame? Surely, it can’t be worth it.

And just like that, the siren’s call is mute again and rational thought returns to him. A simple shake of the head is all he needs to convey his refusal, a shake of his head met with intrigue instead of disappointment, surprisingly enough. Gustave still seems oblivious to his presence and so he steps back, closes the door and wonders how he’s going to explain what he just witnessed to Catou.

Whether he’s going to at all.

 

~*~

 

They meet at Gustave’s funeral.

His tears are fresh and Catou has been busy drying them as best she can yet as long as she’s unable (or possibly unwilling) to explain why life has to be this unscrupulous, her gently-spoken words are no more than a bandage covering a wound which will not heal. Heart failure, grieving relatives told him over the phone, and Monty can relate as his own nearly goes down the same path the moment he realises his old friend is gone for good. Regrets occupy him even more dominantly than his sorrow does, all the things they’ve been meaning to do together yet postponed for entirely insignificant reasons.

Withdrawn, they called him behind the immediate family’s backs, isolated. Barely anyone visited him for months before his death, a few written words via phone are all the communication Gustave upheld and even with those he was curt. It apparently started a year ago, possibly more, gradually worsened over time. Monty was too busy working, planning his wedding, killing time with all sorts of irrelevant activities where he should’ve been by his friend’s side instead.

Someone skirts around the funeral party like he doesn’t belong. Hardly speaks with anyone, unconcerned about his shoes getting muddy in the soft, wet dirt, and smokes. He’s dressed for the occasion, his suit form-fitting and flattering his lithe physique though he hasn’t shaved, the slightly unkempt beard disturbing the image of a grief-stricken friend or acquaintance. As before, he sticks out like a tile placed the wrong way around – as if he _should_ fit but doesn’t. The main difference to last time is that he’s less flighty, can’t hide as well in this crowd.

Monty dreamt of him. Agonised over the thought of what would’ve happened had he followed the invitation – either one of the two offers, really. Men don’t appeal to him, just like they didn’t to Gustave, but he has to admit there’s something about this stranger which is irresistible, draws him in like it did previously before he regained common sense. He’s entertained the notion that the attraction is somehow… _deliberate_ , that Gustave was weaker than him and unable to resist where he managed to sober up just in time, but surely that’s no more than a cheap excuse for his impure thoughts. Regardless, the man left him no peace and even half a year later he still pictures dark eyes staring him down now and then. He’s caught himself fantasising about black motifs swirling their way over Catou’s back on the rare occasions she allowed the position. A flight of fancy, an odd, harmless infatuation possibly born from curiosity and squashed within time. That’s what he thought it was.

Seeing him now feels like a slap to the face, not only due to the nature of the event but also because Monty thought he’d be safe. Yes, he thought of him. Yes, he saw his features before him in the darkness many times. However, there’s so much to him he failed to notice previously, his fluid gait, nimble fingers playing with his cigarettes, one corner of his mouth curling humourlessly as he listens to the priest endeavouring to secure Gustave’s eternal peace. He’s sobering, awarding the whole ceremony a different quality, makes it seem tacky and redundant instead of tasteful and like an appropriate farewell to a dear friend of his.

He’s also inevitable.

One by one, the sniffling and shattered guests leave to attend the wake and, under differing circumstances, Monty would be amongst them, would wear his heart on his sleeve and rely on his fiancée to support him but not today. He remains, sends the others away, promises to join them soon. Not even their assumption that he needs additional time to sever the emotional ties which connected him to someone who is now no more than maggot fodder manages to shake him or change his mind. It’s made up with all its horrific consequences, the immorality. He’s going to act against all his beliefs and principles, betray the very core of who he is and doesn’t know who he’s going to be in the future.

He only knows he has no choice.

The man stays behind with him, eyes downcast at the coffin in which someone lies buried who might’ve been an angel. Neither of them are looking at each other yet there’s a band between them. They know.

When his current cigarette is finished, he tosses it into the grave and turns around, heads for the church.

It’s remarkable how a few minutes can alter the very essence of a human being. According to the watch on Monty’s wrist, it’s no more than five minutes from them squeezing into the confessional and stepping back outside into the unpleasant drizzle, though it’s a different person who walks through the heavy church doors for the last time that day. This person has pushed his hand into the short hair of another man, pulled him back up when he struggled and familiarised himself with an organ just like his own and yet so very different. This person has panted against a beard instead of a breast, felt sharp angles instead of soft curves, and still the result was the same. The stranger licked it off his hand devotedly, lapping at it like a dog, and ended their interaction with a scorching gaze from oddly black eyes and a quick press of mouth on mouth. The motion doesn’t deserve to be called a kiss. Nothing of what they did deserves to be described in any of the terms familiar to Monty, it was a perversion, a transgression, a ridicule.

Guilt buzzes low in his mind and he knows it’ll eat him up eventually but for now it’s no more than larvae crawling around nibbling at his nerves until smiles won’t come to him naturally anymore, until his patience is a thin thread, until blind panic befalls him seemingly out of the blue. They’ll grow with time, he’s sure of it.

“Third time’s the charm”, the man says. Despite how monumental his conquest was, there’s not even anything like pride in his voice. He did seem to enjoy himself more than the last time Monty saw him and yet he has the impression it’s a chore rather than an achievement. He wishes it to be untrue for if it’s not, what does that imply about his giving in? “Feel better?”

He does. Above all, even more prominent than the darkness threatening to overtake his thoughts a few years down the line, lies satisfaction, a relief so enticing it’s scary. Monty inspects the figure next to him and realises with increasing worry that he’s tempted to repeat their actions. If prompted, even immediately. “No”, he lies flatly. The power this man holds over him is frightening.

“That’s what they all say.” A toneless laugh accompanies him as he leaves, not bothered by the fine droplets hitting him.

 

~*~

 

They meet while Catou is away to visit her parents.

His name is Dom and he likes to scratch when he climaxes.

As before, his presence is an anomaly in an otherwise carefully glued together life, a life previously conducted without many major regrets, without unaddressed issues eroding its owner until a funeral happened, a church, a confessional, a sin. Afterwards, it was in shambles for a while, Monty presenting pieces and splinters of it in a way so the people around him believed them to be part of a whole instead of their shattered reality. Over a few weeks, he painstakingly lined them up and put them back together, was relatively successful, even if he pointedly ignored the large holes punched into the construct, holes for which he found no fitting parts.

And then Cathérine leaves. And Dom arrives.

They do not deserve to be called kisses still. It’s a show of dominance above all, a prying open of lips, a tongue taking whatever it wishes, initiated and concluded on Dom’s terms, his merciless teasing born from the fire in his eyes which is fuelled by each of Monty’s whimpers, every attempt to capture the mouth which eludes him when he wants it most. Representative of almost all their encounters, the torture is sweet and cruel simultaneously, at Monty’s expense and yet to his benefit – because he does get rewarded in the end. Every single time.

Dom owns him. Like a flash flood, he swept Monty away, washed over him out of the blue, embraced him fully and now refuses to set him free. He really is akin to a natural catastrophe, damage control the only viable response but useless as long as the calamity reigns unchallenged and so all Monty can do is endure, suffer, wait. Catou is gone for two weeks. It’s doable. He managed to compartmentalise eventually after the last time even though rationalising his actions proved impossible (he has no excuse, no explanation, not a single transparent, flimsy reason), therefore he’s convinced he’ll be successful after this exceptional situation as well.

For the moment, his mind is perpetually trapped in a lustful haze. It’s like he’s seventeen again, spending his summer vacation alone at home under the guise of studying for important exams when in reality he didn’t bury his nose in a book but rather himself in the really quite pretty Salomé who was a year above him. Only instead of Salomé and her wavy black hair and her two-faced innocence it’s Dom with his wavy black tattoos and his confident arrogance, arranging Monty how he wants him, pushing fingers inside his mouth, denying his release maliciously until he feels it’s earned. Fighting against him is futile as is obliging, he gets treated the same either way.

Sometimes, he tries to initiate and lead, focuses on pleasuring Dom instead of rushing towards his goal of making Monty come inside – and it’s odd, no matter what they’re doing, he seems sated once he can swallow or feels flesh pulsing inside his hole, doesn’t require to orgasm himself to a point where he’d rather hurt himself and force it than let an opportunity pass. The first few times, his composure cracked with hissing through clenched teeth, rigid posture, lines of concern on his forehead, and Monty remembered the thin stripe of blood, vowing to be a more considerate lover and allowed for more time, a slower approach, gentler beginning. Almost expecting Dom to chastise him for his consideration in case he actually likes the pain, he was surprised the other man seemed to appreciate the gesture. Just like he appreciates the rare times Monty sets aside to tend to Dom’s needs. And… and sometimes, there’s -

There’s … something odd.

Dom’s eyes, for one. At times they’re golden brown or chocolatey dark, but when Monty has buried two digits in tight heat and those of his other hand encase a shaft so familiar to him by now, they’re black. It could be the lighting playing tricks on him. Just like the time he thought Dom had razor sharp fangs, exposed in an ecstatic moan. Or the way his tattoos … move. Not all the time, not even more than twice, and always merely in his peripheral vision.

He hasn’t eaten anything in Monty’s presence, not once. Living with him is exceedingly strange as it is, like sharing his abode with a taciturn roommate who entertains odd hobbies and with whom he has little in common, only they continuously have sex. The two weeks feel like a nightmare in which fucking another man seamlessly fits into his life that otherwise hardly changes – he phones Catou, he goes to work, he eats and sleeps but Dom always just hovers at the edge of his consciousness like an illness threatening to take over the moment he sits down to rest. Never once does he allow himself to think too closely about his entire situation or how he even ended up here.

Instead, he lets Dom purr into his ear and caress his throat while their sweat and breath mix in an unholy union.

 

~*~

 

The day before Catou is scheduled to return, Monty tries something. He comes home from work and instantly, Dom is on him, jumps into his arms like an overattached kitten before he can even discard his shoes, tugs on his clothes and whispers filth into his ear in a low voice which causes a base, Pavlovian reaction. Fighting against the impulse to carry his odd and wrongly placed backpack straight to the bedroom, he kisses it instead. Dom stretches into it, tightens the hold of his legs and expresses his approval by humming into Monty’s mouth, reciprocating the deep kiss as if this wasn’t the first time they’re doing it this intentionally, lips sliding softly over lips and he feels a hard erection poking his midsection. A good sign, especially since Dom sometimes stays flaccid the entire time, seems to perform out of habit rather than desire – despite him being the one to approach Monty first.

The mouth on his widens into a smirk when he presses Dom against the nearest wall, rubbing himself against the slender body. Differing from his partner, Monty never once encountered any trouble holding an erection which is a miracle in itself when factoring in how often they sleep with each other as well as the quiet voice in the back of his head telling him he’s not even attracted to Dom. He continues in this vein, draws out the foreplay, ensures that by the time he’s usually already inside, they haven’t even undressed while rolling around on the bed, are greedily exploring each other’s mouths still. He’s generous with his, flatters Dom’s body with it where he can, licks and sucks on all the weak spots and even coats his rigid shaft in saliva until Dom’s cheeks have turned pink. For once, he seems content in allowing Monty free rein, his impatient spurring drastically decreased in favour of squirming under him and panting wantonly.

With the next part, too, he takes his time, three fingers eventually probing deep and priming that sweet spot he intends to exploit mercilessly in a moment – stroking and rubbing over it so precisely that Dom bites into his own arm to muffle the moans he deems embarrassing though they’re music to Monty’s ears. He doesn’t miss the two bleeding wounds once Dom removes it again to pull on his hair demandingly. He relents for fear of Dom wrestling all control back should he tease him too much and withdraws, replaces his fingers with something bigger and hooks his arms into the bends of Dom’s knees, pushing them down almost to his head and if he’s right, he should – if he’s lucky -

His first thrust already affirms his hope, wrenching a loud noise from the body under him which surprises even Dom himself though he’s powerless, produces a second one and a third, elated moaning entirely involuntary but exactly what Monty wanted to accomplish. Despite his own thrumming lust which sings, always sings when they do this, a saccharine melody lulling him in, pretending like all is well with the world; despite the nigh irresistible _pull_ , he focuses on one thing and on one thing only, keeping the angle, relentlessly driving into the willing body and eliciting more and more noises.

It’s strangely satisfying to hear Dom be this vocal, this enthusiastic, and when Monty kisses him once again, relishes the proximity and feigned affection, he wonders whether it doesn’t feel a little bit like love. He’s become fond of the man before him, even his power trips, aggressive lovemaking, cynicism, curtness, and they’re intimately familiar with each other by now, so why should it be impossible to love more than one person at a time? He can guess Dom’s moods which admittedly isn’t easy as they change quickly, has become accustomed to his presence and is genuinely enjoying the fact that Dom is experiencing vicious pleasure only because of him. Then again, it’s probably his lust poisoning his brain with these ideas. It’s hard to pinpoint intrusive thoughts in the heat of the moment.

Dom is growing increasingly frantic, grabbing at everything in reach, digging his heels into Monty’s back all the while mewling and moaning in disbelief, quivering and relinquishing all control gladly while Monty thrusts into him, hits his prostate, wipes everything else from his mind. Need pulses under his own skin, appeased by the hard movements, yet it’s secondary to his ultimate goal. The groans steadily increase in volume and desperation as do the sloppy kisses and panicked touches – and the large black drawing on his shoulder begins to fade, leaving behind script in a language Monty has never seen before. And Dom is close, he’s so close judging by how tightly he clings to the object of his desire, cries out on every second thrust and looks as if he cares no more for his surroundings or his audience, has gradually lost himself until he arrived at this point, at the point where indifference born from extreme lust wins over common sense.

With astonishing power, Dom rolls both of them over, apparently prefers straddling Monty as he rides out the last necessary thrusts to reach his long-awaited orgasm and when he does, a number of things happen at the same time.

He _screams_ and half of the noise is otherworldly, seems to erupt straight from the skies instead of his throat though Monty doesn’t manage to confine it to memory as a brilliant pain explodes in his own chest, white hot and almost making him miss the most important part: the moment Dom climaxes in utter ecstasy, the moment he slams his hips down for the last time and his erection, untouched, starts jumping, an almost deafening whooshing noise accompanies the sudden appearance of large appendages swallowing all light around them, massive and intimidating yet fragile.

It’s not the only change though it’s the most obvious one, leathery skin spanning between thin bones, a mere smattering of feathers distributed haphazardly over the ridge like remnants of a time where the wings were majestic and bird-like, now reminiscent of a bat. They’re too large for the room, in their unfolding knocked over a variety of trinkets and other things, are awkwardly bent at the tips where they touch the walls.

Monty looks at the creature perched on top of him like his personal night mare, feels it contract around his unwaveringly hard dick and tries his best to stay sane. The monster is so familiar and so alien at once, facial features the same as before only now there are curved horns adorning his temples and he clearly sees the pronounced canines while Dom breathes heavily, recovering from his violent orgasm. The dark ink is replaced by foreign writing crawling its way over pale skin, actually moving, a tail wags lazily and slithers over Monty’s legs like a snake and when he finally lowers his gaze to inspect the damage on his own torso he finds large claws embedded into his skin, having caused nasty-looking wounds leaking crimson liquid.

“This is your own fault”, Dom informs him matter-of-factly, still short of breath, as if he didn’t… as if he wasn’t what he _is_ , gingerly pulling his sharp nails out of Monty’s flesh and ignoring his whimper of pain. Black eyes regard him expectantly. “Got anything to say?”

Looking at him hurts, almost more than the deep stab wounds. He shouldn’t exist and yet he does, as much a marvel as he is a curse because now Monty knows, is absolutely sure what’s going to happen to him in the long run. Even so, the … being on top of him prompts more questions than it provides answers though they are substantial. Quite a few things click into place and he only just begins fusing them together for the bigger picture when -

When the door opens.

 _No_ , he thinks.

Dom is alarmingly fast. His head whips around at the intrusion, wings uncomfortably scraping over the wallpaper and Catou barely gets the opportunity to scream in terror before he’s on her. Though she’s noticeably weaker – and Monty is sure he hasn’t even felt the full extent of Dom’s physical strength – she hadn’t entered the room yet and Dom’s extra limbs prevent him from fitting through the door, so instead of tearing her apart immediately as he might have intended, she falls down when he moves to grab her, eludes his grip though he rips through the denim of her trousers as if it was paper, leaving several long lacerations on her legs which turn her shrieking into horrified sobs. At least she manages to crawl away out of his reach, hugging herself and shaking her head.

“He’s mine”, Dom snarls at her and keeps repeating himself while flapping his wings uselessly, reminding Monty of a trapped bird attempting to escape through a closed window, smashing against the door frame and punching large splinters out of it in desperation. “Keep your fucking filthy hands off him, you frigid bitch, he belongs to _me_.”

Though he’s been paralysed ever since Dom revealed his true form, Monty finally finds the presence of mind to intervene, get up shakily while disregarding his own dripping blood and hesitates still to approach the furious creature hurling insults at the woman he once loved but no more. He doesn’t deserve to. No more. “Dom, calm down”, he asks quietly and can’t suppress the heady rush of pride when the demon who could just as well tear him into pieces pauses and half-turns to him, mindful to not knock him over with his wings. “Let her go.” He knows what he must do if his assumptions are correct. He knows what will happen.

“You’re mine”, the monster clarifies and shows worryingly sharp teeth to intimidate – as if this was necessary when he’s managed to claw even into the solid wall and left behind deep scratch marks.

“Yes”, Monty says simply and doesn’t miss the astonishment flitting over Dom’s face momentarily. “She’s not going to return. She’ll pack her things and leave and forget any of this happened.”

The dubious look Dom throws Cathérine is entirely warranted as she’s still trembling and not looking like she’s processing anything she hears. “She better”, he finally agrees and relaxes, closes his eyes and concentrates until the tattoos return and the wings have shrunk into his back – it still hurts Monty’s head but it also makes a lot of sense in an entirely unintuitive way. “Two hours.” And with that, he pulls his clothes back on, borrowed ones as he arrived with no luggage, steps into the hallway and scoffs at the whimper of fear he earns. “Come on.”

Monty has no chance but to follow him suit, no matter how much he’d rather begin explaining to his ex-fiancée.

 

They sit in a quiet café.

Never before have they been in public like this, never this deliberately and still Dom seems to want to shrink from his gaze, make himself invisible, drift around the room instead of sitting down in one place. His disguise is impeccable, even knowing where it could break apart, where the seams are, Monty spots no inconsistencies – he appears human through and through.

His coffee tastes of nothing and he probably burnt his tongue but none of it matters, probably won’t matter very soon. He stirs it, loses himself in the swirl for a while and wonders whether Dom will mind a direct approach. Not like he’s being given any other choice as he finds it impossible to think of a way to ease into the topic. “I’m going to die”, he states unsteadily.

“Yes”, comes the neutral reply even though it wasn’t a question. “You’re remarkably calm about it.”

“I… suspected.” It’s only half a lie, he’s certainly _considered_ yet not without a sizeable amount of doubt on top of it. “When?”

“A year. Less now. Eleven months? Not enough to get married.”

Gustave’s family reported that he started to isolate himself about a year before he died, so Monty decides he’s being told the truth. Oddly enough. “And there is no way to… stop it? Reverse it? You can’t find someone else?”

“Straight past denial and anger, huh? Usually it takes a few days before they start bargaining.” A sarcastic smirk adorns his lips now.

“I’d just like to know all my options.”

“You’ve got nerves of steel.” He’s wrong. The panic inside Monty has been alight the entire time they were at the hospital to get him patched up and still roars wildly – but he knows acting on it won’t improve his chances. And maybe he’s already accepted his fate, somehow already did the day they buried his friend even though he didn’t know back then. “But no. You’re gonna die, no matter what.” Monty fixes him with a sceptical look which seems to be enough to make him relent. “One of us is dying and it’s not me, in any case.”

“One of us”, he repeats.

“You’ve been chosen and your days have been numbered since then. I could stay away and refuse to…” Dom frowns, clearly unhappy with his choice of words. “Refuse to feed. I would starve and you’d live. But it’s not happening. You can’t resist me – physically can’t resist me, no matter what you do, the first two were a fluke, you should’ve been mine back then already. So as long as I stay, you’re dying. Besides, I value my life.”

“I value mine.”

Dom shakes his head. “You don’t go to the same place I do after death.” And that seems to be all he’s willing to say on the matter, so Monty changes his approach.

“Did Gustave know what you are?”

“No. Not even at the end. Most of them never find out.”

This surprises him only until he remembers the drop of blood on a pale thigh, the bored expression, the hissing during their first times. Dom requires it to live and therefore is left no choice – being stuck with an inconsiderate or selfish lover seems to be the norm as all his actions point to uncomfortable familiarity. His camouflage only holds up if he focuses on it enough and if even small gestures can make it slip, it seems others before Monty were interested in their own pleasure above all. And suddenly, he’s hit with the realisation that Dom must be horrifyingly lonely. His survival is at the forefront of his mind and the nature of his entire being probably necessitates frequent moving around, hopping from city to city. No time or opportunities for any connection other than the one he inevitably forms with what slowly withers under his touch. Predators don’t befriend their prey.

“Do you have a place to live?”, he finds himself asking. Another head shake. “Well. You do now.”

“I’m going to kill you”, Dom reminds him. “You’re inviting your murderer to share your personal space?”

Monty assumes his victims are usually less understanding, probably thrash and plead and curse. Over something basically out of Dom’s hands. “It’s not like you really have a choice in all this, do you?”

 

Monty prepares his will. He gets life insurance, a hefty amount which will go to his family: after all, he’s in the prime of his life and healthy and the company doesn’t know he’s going to die in less than a year. His other possessions he leaves to friends and Cathérine. He tries to contact her but, unsurprisingly, she wants to hear exactly nothing of what he has to say. She refused to ransack the flat, mistakenly packed some of his belongings and forgot some of hers, left most of the valuables, possibly in fear of retaliation. Monty sorts through the remains, mails what belongs to her to her parents’ house. In a way, it’s almost like preparing to move, possibly to another country, severing ties, coming to terms with having to say goodbye, only he won’t return from the place he’ll move to.

The entire time, Dom watches him with increasing incomprehension and exasperation. “You really make it look like you were perfectly prepared for death”, he comments, stretched out on the bed and lazily following his host with his eyes.

“I’m thankful for the grace period”, Monty responds earnestly. “Few people are allowed to get their affairs in order before they pass away. Death normally doesn’t wait.” This earns him nothing but a scoff. It’s Dom’s new favourite hobby going by how often he does it. “I believe Gustave would’ve appreciated the heads-up as well.”

“Normally it doesn’t end well when they know. Even the seemingly reasonable ones flip their shit and become resentful. I brought two to their even more untimely end because of it.”

Monty halts, notices the way Dom averts his gaze following this statement. He assumed it would be impossible for the demon to kill his chosen victims sooner than the allocated year due to possible starvation, but it seems he was wrong – however, this means that during his entire life he’s only extinguished two lives on purpose, no more. He can only imagine what they regularly must’ve done to Dom, being forced to sleep with him against their will and no outlet for their ire other than Dom himself. “How old are you?”

“Too old. I’ve seen kingdoms rise and fall. I watched your precious revolution and believe me, freedom stinks.”

Several centuries then. His mind attempts to wrap itself around this concept and fails. “And in all that time, you deliberately killed only two people?”

“I don’t enjoy killing.” Dom frowns disapprovingly as if Monty has caught him contradicting himself somehow and thus he adds: “But I don’t get attached either. If that’s what you’re implying.”

Maybe not. But Monty is sure his predator knew for a while where he lived, so attending Gustave’s funeral was an entirely unnecessary gesture, he could’ve visited Monty whenever he wanted – Dom attended voluntarily, possibly out of a strange sentimentalism. And there’s another detail he’s fuzzy on. “How often do you have to feed?”

The topic seems to make him uncomfortable. “Why do you have to know?”

“I’m curious.”

“Well, I’m not telling you. I don’t want to hear your bitching if I demand more – you could survive on a few slices of bread each day but that doesn’t mean you’d want to, right?”

“I’m not going to complain. I like it.”

Dom shows his teeth humourlessly. “Of course you do, you’re meant to. It’s what I _do_.”

He suspected as much – so the incessant pull he sometimes feels, the moments in which he’s basically running on pre-placed rails with finishing inside being his destination, they’re indeed part of Dom’s power, an ability he already unsuccessfully tried on him twice at his engagement party but which now works flawlessly on Monty no matter the time of day or occasion. This, too, adds to the disillusionment which came with the reveal of Dom’s true nature. “Tell me. What’s the absolute minimum?”

Hesitation eventually fades into relenting. “Once a week. Anything less is… very uncomfortable.”

Monty nods. Three, maybe four weeks passed between the funeral and Dom turning up at his house and from what he gathered, there’s only one viable option for … nutrition at a time. So he almost starved himself – why? To allow for Monty to come to terms with what he’d done? He finds no other explanation. And he’s beginning to doubt Dom’s feigned indifference towards the ones chosen for him.

 

One by one, he closes off bridges. Some, he burns down intentionally and meticulously, ensures there won’t be anything left by the time he’s done, convinced it’s for the benefit of the people on the other side. In time, they will forget there ever was a bridge, find other places to go, different rivers to cross. Others he declares impassable and adds a large, unfriendly warning sign stating it’s unsafe and will be repaired at a later date. He has no intention of ever re-opening them.

Again, watchful eyes follow him as he answers only the first few calls coming from his parents and then blocks their number, as he turns people away at the door or refuses to answer at all, as he ignores messages, throws away letters, quits his job, sells a few of his belongings. Dom has mellowed out immensely, indubitably aided by how methodically and composedly Monty tackles his unfortunate situation, and teases him less, dials down his shows of dominance and accepts kisses willingly though not without vague suspicion.

“It hurts you”, he announces one evening while sprawled out on the couch, feet in Monty’s lap. “And you still have so many months left over. Why cut them out of your life already? Most people would want to spend as much time with their loved ones as they can.”

“I believe it softens the blow. If they get used to me not being a part of their lives anymore, they’ll accept me being gone more easily. Hopefully.” Monty distractedly strokes over Dom’s shins, obliges and massages his thighs instead when he wiggles his legs and crawls closer to him. “Besides – would you even let me spend most of my time with them?”

Dom’s face darkens considerably and both of them recall the altercation with Cathérine. “No”, he says quietly.

It’s what he expected. No matter how lust-crazed Gustave was, he wouldn’t have severed all ties of his own volition. “Tell me of the French revolution”, he asks instead, switching topics so they don’t dwell on the strange pact to which he never agreed yet with which he’s stuck now.

And Dom scoffs. But he does it anyway.

 

“Have you ever been to Spain?”, Monty wants to know curiously a few days later. They’re lying in bed, Dom on top of the blanket and listlessly playing around on Monty’s phone while its owner yawns and gradually wakes up to face yet another day on his journey to his death. He’s gotten used to Dom not needing sleep by now, has borrowed a few books from the library for him so he’s not bored but finds that his strange house guest prefers spending the night in his vicinity, entertained or not.

“I’ve been everywhere in Europe”, comes the blasé answer, probably deservedly seeing as it’d be hard to imagine staying in one country for several centuries. “Most of Asia, too. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. But you haven’t been to Oceania or the Americas?”

“No. I hate long travels by boat and planes have only recently become this reliable.”

“Would you like to go?”

Dom stills. Slowly looks over, expression carefully blank. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I made a list”, Monty informs him politely, “of all the places I’d like to see before I die. Then I looked up flights, figured out the best route to take, the most efficient way to get to them all, and it turns out it’d cost a fortune, especially for two people.”

“I know that part of who I am stops them from running away from me, but usually they don’t end up making vacation plans including me.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve discarded all plans anyway, they’re not viable. If there’s so much you haven’t seen yet, we can just hop onto the cheapest flight we find instead and let coincidence decide where we end up.”

“You really are fucking insane.”

“Why? I’d like to explore more of the world. The lease is cancelled already and what I need fits into two suitcases. Which is handy, seeing as you barely have any possessions.”

“Are you really asking for my permission to travel the world?”

“No. I’m asking you to come with me.”

Dom chews on his lip, a habit into which he falls back whenever unsaid words lie on his tongue and Monty wonders what it is this time. He’s well aware of probably being too considerate towards his killer yet he’s long accepted the fact that Dom will stay by his side whether he wants him to or not. It could be worse, he’s snarky yet appreciative and reacts well to kindness, meets it with a mix of reluctance and greed, doubting its authenticity and accepting it nonetheless. He finds no joy in harming Monty outside the bedroom, doesn’t torment him malevolently and seems content to laze around most of the time – in public he’s usually anxious even though he navigates conversations flawlessly due to his innate charm. As a cross Monty has to bear, he’s surprisingly light.

“We’re not going anywhere cold”, Dom decides eventually and when Monty smiles at him, he looks away.

 

~*~

 

They meet on the edge of the Piazza del Campo.

Tourists are omnipresent on the reddish piazza, taking pictures and strolling around aimlessly, basking in the afternoon sun and pointing at maps or devices displaying the very same. The place is shaped like a shell and stunningly beautiful, its magnificence only amplified by the medieval, vaguely Gothic architecture of the palazzo Monty just visited, a sheer fountain of breathtaking frescos. He’s climbed over four hundred steps to get to the top of the worryingly tall Torre del Mangia, the tower attached to the palazzo, and revelled in the excellent view presented to him. Tuscany has turned out to be a fantastic choice even if it’s more expensive than Monty would’ve liked.

Between two groups of foreign speakers stands a man who isn’t really what he seems to be, his uniqueness only conveyed through a piercing stare from dark eyes – he lacks all characteristics of the tourists around him, neither wears a mesmerised nor a fatigued expression, doesn’t crane his neck in order to read street names and gives off no impression of needing to be anywhere, of wanting to continue a journey. Instead, he waits, keeps still under Monty’s gaze, meets it calmly and seems unaffected by the bustling activity on the rest of the piazza.

“Here”, he says once Monty has arrived in front of him, handing him the small cup of half-melted ice cream, “I chatted with an old lady owning a gelato place and she adored how much I knew about old Italian and the origins on some of their idioms.”

The cool refreshment comes at the perfect time, Monty still sweating from the descent leaving his legs feeling like butter, and so he accepts it gratefully. “Thank you. You could’ve said no, you know that?”

Dom raises an eyebrow. “But you love this stuff. I know you prefer cones but I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

“It’s delicious”, he mumbles through a mouthful of the best chocolate ice cream he’s eaten in his entire life: it’s rich, hardly sweet at all and so chock full of flavour he’s tempted to seek out said shop and buy more. “You want to try some? It’s not too sweet.” Dom throws the food in question a dubious glance but ends up nodding, so Monty leans in and gently presses their lips together, Dom’s warm against his cool ones, feels them open against his and caresses his tongue with his own. They dance playfully and much longer than would be necessary to give Dom a taste of the dark chocolate but neither of them pull back before they’re breathing heavily and one of Dom’s hands has come to rest on Monty’s hip.

When he withdraws, Dom licks his lips with a nod. “That _is_ delicious”, he agrees and Monty has the sudden urge to pour the rest of it over his chest, challenge himself to catch every last drop before it hits the ground and he’s about to chastise Dom – he’s asked him numerous times to refrain from using his power in public, implied to not use it at all as it’s hardly necessary at this point – when the moment passes and his thoughts are his own again. “How was the tower?”

“Amazing. I took photos, let me show you once I’m done eating.” They huddle together to peek at his phone’s screen afterwards, marvelling at the clear sky allowing for a perfect view and at some point, Dom rubs his cheek on Monty’s shoulder and he kisses the top of his head in return. The pictures are striking, pretty enough for Dom to demand some of them, so they walk to the outskirts of Siena and find a small café on a corner tourists don’t frequent, meaning the prices aren’t nearly as steep and the waiter overly friendly as soon as he hears Dom’s impressive Italian. Buying a simple espresso allows them to use the café’s Wi-Fi and Monty uploads the photos to their shared cloud, watches with a vague sense of pride how Dom confidently downloads them to his own phone, a purchase they made before boarding even their first flight half a year ago. It’s his most prized possession and almost never not on his body – he’s even become adept at taking photos or shooting small videos cataloguing their travels.

They ended up in Italy after Dom refused to go to Canada or northern Russia, have been merely enjoying the mild weather and lodging in a vacation home which would’ve turned no profit empty and so they’re allowed to stay for a ridiculously low amount – albeit only for a week, which happens to suit them just fine. A lot of the time, they hitchhike to get around after they’ve landed, Dom and his superior knowledge of languages invaluable almost wherever they go. Sometimes, they work simple jobs to top up their budget, more often than not befriending locals in the process and being let in on the secrets of the cheapest place to stay, the best restaurants to eat, where else to get paid.

It’s the most relaxed Monty has ever been in his life. There’s nothing left to worry about, no responsibilities, no regular job, no people to keep up to date: he’s slept on a bench with Dom keeping him warm, he’s gone a day without food, they’ve been stuck at airports for much longer than they’d have liked, yet in the end it always works out, there’s always someone willing to help or an opportunity which seems to spring up out of nowhere – and sometimes either of them knows his way around or at least pretends to. All Monty has to do is enjoy life for what it is, recognise the beauty all around him and allow it to soothe his soul.

Surprisingly enough, Dom turns out to be the ideal travel partner. As he neither eats nor sleeps, he never complains about the bed being too soft or hard nor about the quality of the food, accepts most of Monty’s decisions with a stoic shrug and endeavours to make the best out of their accommodation. His vast experience from travelling before is, while outdated, just as welcome as the endless stories he recounts to shorten long flights or sleepless nights; stories of war and other quarrels, of simple people finding ingenious ways to enrich their lives, of wild animals being an actual threat, of unfortunate coincidences, morbid instances of irony, gleeful revenge. Monty never gets enough, flatters and bribes and coaxes until Dom thinks of one more. Sometimes, he teaches him languages instead though Monty often ends up confusing the vocabulary, thanks their Italian landlady in Spanish and makes Dom laugh with his clumsy attempts at pronunciation.

He’s forgiven him. It was implied that him being chosen was out of Dom’s power but insistent prodding affirmed it directly, therefore there’s nothing for which he is to blame. Regardless, Monty realised early on that he harboured a certain ill will towards him nonetheless, hadn’t fully accepted the consequences of their proximity and thus spoke with Dom at length, causing his temper to flare and spit out a few details of how he’d been treated before, how it weighed down his conscience after all. He seemed ashamed after the outburst, tempted to withdraw entirely but to Monty he became much more human again, relatable, approachable. And it only made Dom’s existence all the more tragic.

So now, whenever Monty studies him, his heart is filled not with dread or even indifference but a deep affection not unlike the one he’s always held for his closest friends. It comes with fierce loyalty and devotion, the strive to cause happiness, the wish to spend time in his presence. From what he can tell, Dom reciprocates most of it, remains by his side gladly and breathes freely in his presence where he before seemed to meet most humans with badly concealed contempt, a cumulative result of past experiences.

The young man nice enough to pick them up from the side of the road only passes by in the rough area of their current home, so they walk the last hour, making suggestions to each other about the remaining sights to see in Tuscany, and when Monty takes Dom’s hand, he lets him.

“Wherever we go next, we should try to find a place to work again”, Monty announces once they’ve settled back in at their current abode, Dom lounging on a cushioned armchair as usual and Monty calculating their funds.

“You know I have all the riches of the world at my fingertips”, Dom mentions off-handedly. The comment is predictable and earns him vague reproach.

“And it would only cost me the measly price of my soul. Yes, I know.”

The grin is just as expected – to him, the topic is decidedly more trivial than to Monty himself. “You could have everything you wanted. Money, power, fulfilment of all your sexual needs…”

“You’re working on the latter without me promising you my soul anyway”, he states, all qualms about cracking jokes pertaining to his own demise or variations thereof long subsided, “and besides, you can’t provide me with a longer lifespan. What am I supposed to do with tons of money in less than four, maybe three months?” Dom’s smirk fades. Recently he’s stopped referring to Monty’s inevitable fate and reacts badly if it’s brought up, thus he quickly changes the topic again. “In any case, you’re not getting my soul as well. Do you want some of the wine?”

Since Dom’s palate is vastly different to that of a human’s, sweets taste abhorrent to him while he much prefers savoury and sour though likes bitter best. Monty once suggested trying out lemon juice but scrunched up his own face so much from drinking some that he was entirely unable to pass the taste on – not like Dom would’ve been ready to receive it, not with how much he laughed. The idea came early, in the time where Monty posed a sheer endless barrage of questions and found out that Dom not only doesn’t but actually _can’t_ eat or else he gets violently nauseous, his body rebelling against the non-nutritional food, and so Monty suggested allowing him to taste coffee directly from his tongue. It was the first time he saw Dom really smile, a genuine, blinding, dizzying smile.

Dom has taken a liking to red wine, enjoys it so much he even gets up and follows Monty into the kitchen, smells the bottle with a reverent expression and eagerly initiates the familiar ritual with a quick press of lips on lips. It never fails to leave Monty light-headed, not when he alternates between sips of flavourful, full-bodied wine and deep, loving kisses, both enough on their own to make his head spin but together forming a potent combination. As it progresses, the sloppy slide of lips becomes the main event, the wine forgotten just like the rest of the world, arms snaking around waists, legs pushing against each other, and the overwhelming need returns which by now is almost second nature, no matter how many times Monty reiterates it’s redundant at this point. He’d allow Dom to seduce him regardless, even without him making use of his abilities.

Still connected by their mouths, they stumble through the rooms, knocking into furniture and carelessly ridding themselves and each other of their clothes, exposing skin tanned in the unforgiving sun of the equator, tanned at beaches and on top of mountains, tanned through windscreens and water. Dom smells of that same sun, of olives and the red wine they tasted together, his skin smooth under Monty’s palms and his muscles dancing. Unlike before, Dom now expends a lot of energy on making him feel good without going anywhere near his crotch, apparently enjoys the sounds falling from Monty’s lips at his affectionate touches just as much as the smile he gets in return. Monty always reciprocates, strokes over the entire slim body, teases and caresses and it’s so very different from the initial frenzy during those first two ill-fated weeks, so far away too from the time directly after during which both of them were oddly embarrassed, hesitant, uncertain.

Whenever Monty’s fingertips find the spots on Dom’s back, he’s unable to suppress a pleasant shudder and a knowing smile spreads on his face following Monty’s quiet plea: “Show me.” A nod, Monty removes his hand, and then wings spread out, flap once or twice and then fold in close to Dom’s body as to not take up too much space. He’s come to admire this side of Dom as well, the frightful appearance a mere synonym for him and thus hardly more than a different outfit. By now, he’s dropped all reluctance to touch the unfamiliar body parts, pulls Dom down by his horns to steal his breath away, holds on to his tail when he’s thrusting from behind – but by far his favourite addition is petting the majestic wings to aid in making Dom come untouched. They’re extremely sensitive and merely running his fingers over the ridge causes a tremor and a hitch in Dom’s breath.

They climax simultaneously, Monty’s tongue gingerly running over the razor sharp teeth and his hands stroking leathery skin whereas Dom brings his hips down decisively, loud moans swallowed by Monty’s mouth, both of them trembling from the intensity. Dom has wisely switched to clenching his fists around nothing instead of leaving claw marks in the bed or Monty himself. He still hasn’t gotten accustomed to the intimacy and undeniable sweet nature of their lovemaking, to the fact that Monty gives just as if not more gladly than he takes, and so he’s always a tad dazed afterwards, disbelieving, blinking down at his lover forlornly until he’s dragged back for another kiss.

Sometimes he leaves the wandering tattoos or his horns so Monty can inspect them more closely, but today he reverts back to his human form entirely though he does allow Monty to press close and embrace him tightly. Cuddling is evidently not something he used to do as he usually starts to fidget quickly, but on rare occasions he’s exhausted or peaceful enough to relax in Monty’s arms for an entire evening – today, he goes a step further even and seeks him out, snuggles against him with a content sigh and leaves ticklish kisses on his jaw until Monty cards his hand through his hair.

 

The bed is empty when he opens his eyes to total darkness. He’s cold, the blanket so unnecessary when he went to sleep yet indispensable once the night has cooled down bundled at his feet. A faint stripe of light by the door lets him know that Dom is in the living room and as company sounds more inviting than sleep right now, he rolls out of bed, pushes the door open and pads towards the quiet sounds indicating someone’s presence. They turn out to come from Dom’s phone, propped up against a cereal bowl in landscape mode and even at this distance, Monty identifies the video Dom is watching over his shoulder without any problem: it’s the one they shot at Niagara Falls, one of their first destinations and for Monty still one of the highlights.

“Isn’t it magnificent?”, he yells on the bright screen over the deafening roar of the natural wonder, face lit up in excitement. “This is amazing!”

The camera turns and points at Dom now who seems decidedly less enthusiastic and retorts just as loudly: “It’s a bunch of fucking water!”

Before the video can continue, a finger taps the screen and navigates back to the large library of travel logs they’ve made, scrolls down and seems to pick at random. This one is from South America – Peru, to be exact. Monty insisted on visiting the National Museum in Lima as he’d read countless positive reviews about it and though Dom was initially extremely sceptical, afterwards he attempted to capture his impressions on Peru’s pre-Inca period without Monty noticing. They’d just left the museum and Monty spotted a promising-looking takeaway place, only to return to Dom avidly chatting into his phone after having pretended to not care much for what they’d seen. He was so engrossed in his deliberations that he didn’t notice Monty until he stepped close and kissed his cheek with a victorious: “I told you you’d like it!”

Now, Dom skips directly to that part and shivers slightly while the on-screen him gets smooched, just rolls his eyes and ends the recording with a blush. Monty can’t help but smile, refrains from making his presence known just yet and chooses to watch him a little longer.

The next video is from Sydney and this fact alone is almost enough to make him laugh in recognition – he _hated_ Sydney, was admittedly having a bad day when they arrived, but after their previous stay which had been lovely and quiet, Sydney was dirty, crowded and rude which he expressed in many choice words while filming its skyline with Dom chortling in the background, audibly amused over his savage assessment of Australia’s probably most famous city. He stops rambling in the video eventually and this is apparently why Dom chose to watch it: the camera swings around and they’re kissing, Dom having silenced the grumpy on-screen Monty with his own mouth. Monty cracks open an eye to check whether he’s filming at the right angle which Dom notices, grins into the kiss and mumbles for him to stop recording.

Though the video is over, the last frame remains, both of them with their eyes closed and mouths pressed together, casually hugging, and for a moment, Monty wishes he still had a home somewhere so he could put this exact picture up and smile every time he walks by. It’s evidence of their progression, indicative of how far they’ve come in trusting each other and -

And Dom isn’t shaking with silent laughter, no, it’s the exact opposite which he only realises when he notices the drop of clear liquid clinging to Dom’s jaw, running along it until it becomes too heavy and falls down, gets absorbed by his trousers and is followed by another one.

It comes as a shock. Dom always comes across as independent, even aloof, and though his gratefulness is palpable, Monty thought – he thought he could keep him company, that’s all he wanted, maybe live on as a pleasant memory in Dom’s head, he couldn’t ask for more… but for this prideful, strong and dangerous creature to show emotions like this, to lay itself bare, there has to be _more_. He has to mean more.

This is when Monty finally understands they’re both doomed. Except _he_ will eventually find peace.

He didn’t mean for this to happen, didn’t anticipate he’d end up trapping Dom just like he was trapped, never wanted to cause the anguish he now recognises in tense shoulders, in clenched fists, a sorrow Dom only allows himself to feel when he thinks himself unobserved, a vulnerability he wouldn’t show intentionally. But now Monty has witnessed it. He has to let him know.

When he speaks his name, Dom jumps up, face contorted in grief and guilt alike, eyes shining and cheeks wet, lip trembling just as much as he is. He’s unable to speak for a moment, opens his mouth, shuts it, makes a second attempt and says, voice thick: “It’s unfair.” Never before has he sounded this weak, this _defeated_ , so deprived of control he’s at a loss what to do. “It’s so unfair”, he adds and lowers his undoubtedly blurry gaze to his phone, the traitor who still displays that which causes him unspeakable suffering, grabs it. “So _fucking_ unfair!”, he yells and then the device explodes into a million pieces, shatters irretrievably in his grasp.

“I know”, Monty tells him softly and despite the show of strength wants nothing more than to hold this surprisingly fragile being close, confident he wouldn’t hurt him, would never choose to do so on purpose. “It is.”

His admittance doesn’t achieve the desired effect, instead Dom helplessly stares at his own hand, at the carnage he caused and pales even more, panic rising up and joining the profound sorrow already visible in his expression. “I destroyed it”, he whispers in horror, “it’s – gone. It’s all I have. It was all I had. I can’t -” No further words come out of his mouth, they’re replaced with a desperate sob, another one muffled by his palm which he pressed over his mouth to silence himself but to no avail, they keep coming and they’re violent, turn into wails.

Monty tries his best to put his arms around him but he’s getting hysterical, pushing him away though without much force, struggling against his touches while keening, his tears flowing freely now and accompanying the fundamental rage with which he meets an unshakeable truth. He’s cowering under the weight of knowing the future too well, painfully aware of his happiness being short-lived with the expiration date approaching fast. Monty knows how he feels, knows it with a sudden clarity as if he reached into Dom’s chest and read it on his heart, knows exactly what he’s going through because –

Because it’s the same for him. He’s inevitably going to lose Dom, never face his brilliant smile again or listen to his stories and he was entirely selfish in wanting to live on in his thoughts, hoped not to be forgotten simply to soften the punch in the gut, the knowledge of having to leave him behind.

When he finally manages to pull Dom against him, they’re both wrecks, Dom desperately weeping against his shoulder and Monty clinging to him while not even trying to hold back his own tears. He’s still fighting against the embrace though more perfunctorily, his vicious crying having drained him of all energy. “It’s okay”, Monty lies to him and fails at sounding normal, his own grief audible, “it’ll be alright. We saved all the videos and photos. You didn’t lose anything. It’s all still there.”

Dom draws a stuttery breath and trembles in his hug, shakes like candlelight. “I don’t care”, he replies, voice cracking, “I don’t want them, none of it. I want you.”

At this, Monty’s chest seizes and he wishes for nothing more than to be able to help, provide solace. Yet he can’t. His end is predetermined and in a cruel twist of fate two organism who by all means should adhere to the laws of nature, of hunter and prey, have bonded in an entirely different way. Imagining how fiercely Dom will blame himself causes faint nausea and so he focuses on the present, as he’s been doing anyway: wipes away their tears, a task never quite finished as Dom’s keep coming, silent now and yet even more devastating than his fury. He’s given up. He knows there’s no choice for either of them. They taste salty on Monty’s lips once he begins kissing them away but the gentle gesture seems to help at least, mostly dry Dom’s eyes.

When their unsteady gazes meet, both of them are left hollow, devoid of the wondrous joy they showcased in the videos, and yet they share their emotions, feel the same way, possibly have done so for a long time without realising. They’re not alone, not yet, don’t have to face this emptiness on their own.

“I don’t want you to go”, Dom whispers. “I don’t want to be all alone again. You’re the only one – you’re the first who -” And his voice dies, his brows draw together, more tears well up and he presses his lips into a thin line, clearly not willing to continue this pitiful performance yet unable to put an end to it.

All Monty can say is: “I know. I know, Dom.”

 

~*~

 

Dom is not taking it well. He’s pacing a hole into the rug of the small French hotel room and it’s a miracle he hasn’t started taking the furniture apart. During their flight back to Monty’s home country, to the place where he was born and grew up, Dom almost scratched through the plane’s hull and could only be convinced to stop by Monty taking his hand and kissing his knuckles until the sharp claws turned back into fingernails. He’s curt and tense and acting like Monty became his personal sun – he basks in his warmth from afar yet refuses to look or touch directly, scared of being burned or blinded. Profound guilt averts his gaze and keeps him away, guides his legs in their neverending quest of tiring him out enough so he can sit without the feeling of having to do _something_.

“Are you sure I’m not just feeling weak from… maybe eating something wrong?”, Monty asks, every word a chore. His body is beginning to disobey him, producing sweat despite the cold seeping into his bones, numbing his extremities and turning his mind sluggish. Now that it’s entirely possible it’s his end, vague dread rises in him, fear of the unknown. He refrained from posing any questions about the _after_ , though Dom has implied it to be pleasant. Not that knowing this affected his racing heart in any way.

“Yes. It’s tomorrow, I always remember the date – and it can happen right at midnight. It’s … it’s not long.” He’s started shivering, wrapping his arms around his torso as he walks back and forth, Monty’s eyes trailing after him lazily.

“Then come here. Don’t leave me alone.”

“I’m not letting you die in my arms”, Dom protests but fulfils his wish nonetheless, slips under the blanket with him and rests his head on Monty’s chest, allows him to pull him closer. His body is a welcome comfort and distraction; Monty runs his hand over Dom’s side, his ribs, his hipbones, massages his back and prompts a small noise when he brushes over one of the spots from which his wings emerge. Part of him wants to – even now, Dom holds an irresistible attraction he just can’t escape.

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.” He angrily wipes his eyes.

“And didn’t I tell you time and time again not to use your pull in inappropriate situations?”

This, somehow, makes his lover laugh through his tears and look him straight in the eye with exasperated fondness. “Monty… I never did. After the first few weeks, after we started travelling, I stopped completely. Out of curiosity. But nothing changed, you – you still wanted me. So much. As much as I wanted you.” He reads the confusion in Monty’s face. “I thought you might freak out if I told you. So I kept it to myself.”

Huh. The revelation is so unexpected that Monty laughs weakly and stops right before it turns into a cough. Silence reigns for a while, restless hands caressing his chest, feeling for the scars left behind by a moment of ecstasy a perceived eternity ago. They’ve seen so much since then, experienced more than almost in all his previous years together. Amusedly, he remembers the first words spoken to him by Dom, an odd foreshadowing of what eventually did indeed happen. He has _lived_. Looking back at the past twelve months, he’s certain of it.

With Dom’s body heat additional to his own, it’s getting too warm but he’s not going to complain. His lover, however, continues to move uneasily as if keeping still meant Monty would drop dead the next second. Something is on his mind, that much is clear, and they don’t have a lot of time if he’s right. And seeing as this is far from the first time he’s lived through this, Monty trusts him to be accurate.

“What is it?”, he wants to know and blinks up at a concerned face when it appears above him. “You can unlock my phone, we tried it out so many times. You know how to access the videos even if you don’t have the phone. You know whom to call when I die. We’ve been over it enough times, there’s nothing we forgot.”

Dom’s fingertips draw his face, follow the most important lines, fill in his cheeks, curve his lips with a tickling touch, arch his eyebrows, run over his ears, all in an obvious attempt to desperately memorise it. “Are you sure you don’t want to give me your soul?”, he asks eventually.

Monty smiles. He half assumed Dom was joking the few times he made the offer but isn’t really surprised upon this revelation. Deciding to humour him, he responds with another question: “What does it entail? Where does my soul end up then?”

“With me.” Dom pauses for effect and feels Monty’s heartbeat with a worried frown. “I can choose to keep it.”

This is more new information and it’s everything but irrelevant. “Is there a hook?”

“You don’t get to go where you otherwise would and believe me, it’s the better option. I’m only offering because I’m egoistic and still looking for a way to cheat fate somehow.”

“But I get to stay with you?”

Alarmed, Dom sits up, shaking his head. “No. No, don’t do this. You’re – you’d be stuck with me forever or at least a really, really long time. That’s not -”

“And I only have to make a pact with you?” Monty reaches out, offers his palm and waits until Dom hesitantly adds his, allowing Monty’s fingers to curl around it. “Alright. What else can you offer me? Apart from not having to leave you?”

It takes Dom several minutes to compose himself before he can explain the specifics.

 

~*~

 

There is a funeral.

As if to mock the grieving family members and friends, the weather is impeccable: the warm winter sun making shed tears sparkle and reflect, tasteful hats shielding their owners from being blinded, black clothing soaking up the rays greedily. The guests don’t appear to be at odds with each other or even the person in their midst, slowly descending to eventually become no more than bones in this garden of skeletons. No matter, it’s simply a shell left, a coat discarded in favour of something more unconstrained though this knowledge seemed to not have reached the large gathering united in their sorrow.

Isolated, some of them call the recently deceased behind his immediate family’s backs, vanished without a trace. Absolutely no one visited him for months before his death, apparently up to a year ago, all of a sudden. Not even written words via phone reached any of them, no letters, nothing. They all worried, agonised over his disappearance, exchanged stories of how he allegedly looked ill the last time they saw him and now they’re quietly blaming each other, blaming themselves in poorly hidden resentment, the cuts deep from his inconsiderate behaviour, his death only fuelling the what-ifs, the guilt, the accusations. Only one woman refuses to partake in any of it. Instead, she holds on to her mother’s hand in an iron grip and shakes where she stands, deathly pale herself and avoiding eye contact with anyone, though one guest specifically.

Someone skirts around the funeral party like he doesn’t belong and appears to be speaking to himself. Different to the people around him, a wistful smile adorns his striking face as he murmurs words into the air as if it answered him. A cigarette accompanies him wherever he goes, the dusty ground dirtying his shoes without him noticing and he listens to the priest drone on about concepts he knows nothing about, invoking powers he doesn’t understand. Once this part is over, the stranger extinguishes his cigarette on his tongue and slips the end back into the packet.

The guests file out one by one onto the parking area, hugging and exchanging words of comfort, their combined aura of grief strong enough to make any pedestrian pass them by more quickly without sneaking a glance.

No one seems to notice the gradual change in demeanour. At first, the children stop trotting after their parents and begin playing catch. Then one small group erupts into sudden laughter, slapping one another on the back without any trace of hysteria in their voices. Acquaintances wave to each other, seem surprised to meet in such a random place. Grim features lighten up and families start discussing plans for today or the weekend.

And the stranger watches it all from the sidelines. Once a few minutes have passed, he approaches a woman in one of the gatherings who’s animatedly telling a story and only turns to him with a frown after he’s addressed her. “What is it?”, she wants to know, suspicious.

“It’s a shame about Monty, isn’t it?”

Her eyes narrow. “Who?”

The man feigns astonishment. “Don’t you have a brother of that name?”

A confused shake of the head. “No. I’ve never had a brother.”

“Oh.” A knowing smile, a polite bow. “Excuse me then, I must’ve mistaken you for someone else.” With that, he walks off, giggling echoing behind him, parents scolding their children for almost running into traffic, friends setting a date for their next meet-up all the while the sun beams down at the congregation oddly dressed entirely in black. A strange coincidence seeing as there was no special occasion.

“Are you happy now?”, the man seems to speak to no one while lighting another cigarette. A smile tugs on the corners of his mouth as he seems to listen for a second before nodding. “Yeah.” He inhales deeply, glances up at the bright orb hanging in the sky. “Me too.”


	2. Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was informed that the ending I chose to write cause a not insignificant amount of tears, so here's a peace offering in the shape of an alternate ending which is considerably happier :)

Dom’s fingertips draw his face, follow the most important lines, fill in his cheeks, curve his lips with a tickling touch, arch his eyebrows, run over his ears, all in an obvious attempt to desperately memorise it. “Are you sure you don’t want to give me your soul?”, he asks eventually.

Monty smiles. He half assumed Dom was joking the few times he made the offer but isn’t really surprised upon this revelation. Deciding to humour him, he responds with another question: “What does it entail? Where does my soul end up then?”

“With me.” Dom pauses for effect and feels Monty’s heartbeat with a worried frown. “I can choose to keep it.”

This is more new information and it’s everything but irrelevant. “Is there a hook?”

“You don’t get to go where you otherwise would and believe me, it’s the better option. I’m only offering because I’m egoistic and still looking for a way to cheat fate somehow.”

“But I get to stay with you?”

Alarmed, Dom sits up, shaking his head. “No. No, don’t do this. You’re – you’d be stuck with me forever or at least a really, really long time. That’s not -”

“And I only have to make a pact with you?” Monty reaches out, offers his palm and waits until Dom hesitantly adds his, allowing Monty’s fingers to curl around it. “Alright. What else can you offer me? Apart from not having to leave you?”

It takes Dom several minutes to compose himself before he can explain the specifics, Monty listening intently and concentrating as best he can to consider all his options. Most of them are only relevant to him were he alive for longer but one catches his attention.

“Can you alter people’s memories?”, he wants to know, interrupting the seemingly well-rehearsed speech he suspects Dom has reiterated countless times before. A nod. “Can you make them all forget? I’ve caused so much pain and none of them deserved any of it.”

“Is that really what you want?” Dom squeezes his hand and absent-mindedly begins tracing the lines in his palm, brows furrowed pensively. “After everything you’ve done, now you choose to take the selfish path? I find it hard to believe that you want a clean conscience this badly. If you were in their place, wouldn’t you rather remember?”

The insight into his mind Dom is demonstrating is astounding – Monty was aware of being transparent to him in most situations yet apparently it even translates to life-changing decisions. He considers the question at length, noticing how his breathing is gradually becoming shallower, and eventually agrees: “You’re right. It’d be selfish. Can you think of anything?”

“What, you’re giving me a blank cheque?”

“I trust you.” With a weak smile, he links their fingers and ponders whether he should let Dom know about the all-encompassing exhaustion which is rapidly taking control of his entire body. “If it works like this, then yes. You’re free to choose what to take in return for my soul.”

Dom’s pained expression reflects Monty’s inner turmoil accurately yet still he nods in resolve. “Alright. I know what to take.” Before Monty is able to inquire about his decision, his lover leans down and whispers against his lips what both of them have known for months, a mere formality and yet it warms Monty’s insides in a more profound way than their hand holding ever could. Hearing it allows something to settle, evicts any remaining doubts from his thoughts and leaves him with a reassuring, encouraging feeling. When he reciprocates, the lips hovering right over his curl into a smile, brush over his in a loving gesture and then add: “This is going to hurt.”

And after a hand has covered his eyes, Monty finds out first hand that Dom is very right.

 

The shocking intensity of the pain caused him pass out and he remembers wondering about what was to come next, but when his consciousness returns, he finds himself staring at the same ceiling as before, the air around him unchanged, his body feeling deceptively normal. Slowly raising his head, nothing is different except for the light filtering in from outside, less subdued than before, an early morning sun kissing the foot of the bed. Each of his limbs weighs a ton yet he’s still whole from what he can discern – a welcome surprise but a surprise nonetheless.

“You’re not dead”, a voice says, trembling with emotion and making him lift his head. Dom is perched on a chair, sickly pale and with bags under his eyes, beard even more scraggly than usual.

“What did you do?”, Monty asks dazedly and then, when he recognises he _should_ have passed away, repeats it, alarmed: “Dom, _what did you do_?”

“Sit up. Are you still feeling weak?” He follows the suggestion, stretches, bends his legs and arms, eventually shakes his head no. “You’re not dying anymore.”

Realisation dawns, the unsaid addition hangs thickly between them, tangible and sickening, too horrific to grasp in all its inevitability and yet Monty hears himself speak it out loud: “But _you_ are.” He doesn’t need to agree, the mournful smile on his lips reveals all. “Dom, no. You can’t – I thought you wouldn’t -”

“I thought so too. Thought myself too egoistical to ever consider doing anything like this. Thought myself too callous to care, too cold to feel compassion, and you managed to prove me wrong so thoroughly.” Monty knows his tone of voice, is intimately familiar with it as he showcased it himself during the past year: he’s felled a decision and is intent on going through with it, has forcibly come to terms with his fate. “So I traded. Mine for yours.”

“How long did I sleep? Why didn’t you wake me?” Panic rises in him, the need to do _something_ , anything, paradoxically paralysing him momentarily before he finally gets up, scoops Dom into his arms. Words clog his throat, expressions of disbelief, sorrow, fury, fear … and love, they all scramble to leave his tongue simultaneously and ultimately don’t make it out at all because he can’t decide which one should come first, which one is most important, which one best represents the emotions raging inside him.

“More than a day. You’re fine now, the date has passed. And I tried but you wouldn’t wake up.” Fatalism colours all of Dom’s actions now, the slow stroking of palms over Monty’s back, the way he rests his forehead on his shoulder. “I can feel it. I’m so weak and exhausted and my insides hurt. I don’t think it won’t be long. Let me lie down.”

Under different circumstances, their reversal of roles would be almost comical: now Monty is the restless one, fussing endlessly over Dom who watches his anxious fidgeting with faint entertainment. He pulls the person who first doomed and then saved him close, listens to his slowing breaths and chokes back tears.

“Don’t cry”, Dom whispers while his eyes fall shut.

Just like him before, Monty doesn’t comply with the request, searches for any appropriate last words other than the ones Dom already used before. His heart throbs and he’s tempted to allow an outburst of sentimentality, utter all the compliments on which he held back before at once, call Dom beautiful, warm, witty, the best kind of company he could wish for – his favourite company in fact, someone whose memory he will forever carry with him, which will elevate him, strengthen his confidence -

And then the hand which held on to his shirt slips and slides down, muscles not supporting it anymore and Monty realises Dom distanced himself on purpose while he slept, refused to let him wake up next to a corpse and it’s a small comfort – but a comfort nonetheless – that Dom will not die alone, instead pass away in the arms of the one man who loves him with such fierce devotion it’s frightening even to Monty himself. Desperately, he shakes the motionless body, says his name, shakes harder and…

Dom yawns.

Blinks up at him with a frown, sleepiness visible in softened features. It can’t be. It’s impossible.

And Monty understands, puts the pieces together, threatens to hyperventilate as relief floods his system so overwhelmingly his mind gets hazy as a result, unable to convey his discovery. All he says, voice trembling and stuck between a sob and a giggle, is: “Your beard grew.” Before him, Dom’s stomach growls angrily and he wants to laugh, do nothing but let out the relief bubbling up in him, laugh and cry at the same time because they accomplished the unthinkable. Somehow, they managed to cheat fate after all. Monty produces a series of noises which are a mix of sniffs and chuckles, pitiful sounds which quite obviously seem to scare his lover but none of it matters. “Dom”, he eventually gasps, “show me your claws.”

Still confused but willing to entertain the hysterical notions of someone on the verge of going insane, Dom lifts his hand and bends his fingers. They remain the same fleshy digits with perfectly manicured white crescents which indubitably are growing right now despite it being impossible to see with the naked eye. Upset, Dom tries again and fails once more. “What -”

“You’ve been up for so long that you’re completely exhausted”, Monty informs him, beaming, “and you’re hungry. That’s why your insides hurt. That’s why you’re weak.”

Finally, it dawns on him. They’re both at a loss for words now, only just coming to terms with the fact that neither of them will die, hearts singing and the crushing weight which has been an eternal companion withdrawing, setting them free.

“Let’s go eat breakfast then”, Dom suggests, visibly marvelling at the unfamiliar words coming from his mouth.

 

A handful of unaffiliated businessmen and -women are scattered around the tables, sipping coffee and tapping on their phones, some of them actually taking advantage of the freshly assembled buffet. It’s too early for most stomachs to digest solid food and therefore their owners remain cosy in bed but as it’s the very first time this particular man will ever eat anything in his life, Monty doesn’t let the early hour discourage him.

“Start with some coffee, that’ll help with your exhaustion”, he decides and pours a cup for the lost puppy trailing after him. When Dom immediately sets it to his lips, Monty only barely stops himself from reaching out. “Don’t – it’s still hot, wait a bit. Leave it black, that’s how you liked it best before.” After piling a variety of breakfast foods onto a plate, Monty chooses a seat furthest away from the other guests and badly conceals his enthusiasm, judging by Dom’s amused expression. “Try some, but carefully. Just a sip.”

With exaggeratedly puckered lips, Dom lifts the cup and sucks in nothing but air at first and then apparently too much coffee as he starts coughing immediately, much to Monty’s concern. They earn a few glances here and there but when Dom follows up his choking with a gagging noise, they’re holding almost everyone’s attention. “That’s fucking _vile_ ”, Dom rasps, both disgusted and disappointed, “is this poison?”

Monty takes a tentative sip and concludes that it is, in fact, nothing but coffee. “Maybe your taste buds changed.” Curiously, Dom decides to test this hypothesis and can only just be persuaded not to shove a stick of butter into his mouth after he’s discovered his passion for honey as well as Nutella. Ignoring the croissants after one bite, he’s busy literally licking out the last of the strawberry jam out of the small packet when Monty – watching him both fondly as well as entertained – muses: “What do you think happened?”

“I can only guess”, Dom replies distractedly while shovelling literal tablespoons of sugar into his coffee at Monty’s suggestion, “but I assume they kicked me out. I’m meant to kill others, not myself.”

It does sound plausible, though Monty disagrees with the notion of Dom’s entire existence being based around selfishness and therefore compassion and self-sacrifice opposing his ideals. At first glance it may seem this way though he’d wager its real purpose is punishment for Dom himself: refused any and all stability, forced to be intimate whether he wants to or not, required to hide his identity for his own safety. Maybe he was absolved instead, granted a second chance. Observing as Dom attempts to drink the partly solid half-coffee half-sugar mix, Monty begins to realise the far-reaching consequences of this profound change. “We have so much to do, you know. You don’t even have an identity which you will need if you want to work and live somewhere.”

At this declaration, Dom lowers the cup slowly, eyes carefully set on the dark liquid mirroring his own irises, now never to change colour again. “You know that you can go back now, right? You could – you could return to your previous life. Get married. Live the way you were planning to. There’s nothing holding you down.”

Technically, he speaks the truth, yet the thought of going back to a regular job, worrying about making ends meet and remaining rooted to one place has ceased to hold any intrigue for him, though he happily anticipates reuniting with friends and family, braces himself for extensive explanations and necessary white lies. And during it all, he wishes for Dom to remain by his side, once doomed to cause everything he touches to wilt, now nurturing Monty’s urge to live life to the fullest instead.

The man before him continues to draw gazes as he absent-mindedly chews with his mouth open and ponders whether he enjoys cheese – and there’s so much he hasn’t experienced yet, so much to learn and marvel at, so much Monty looks forward to showing him.

“I’m not going to leave you”, he tells him softly and pictures the peacefulness of his lover sleeping in his arms, unable to fight down a wide smile and adding much more quietly: “But I might still get married.”

Their eyes meet over a table of a half-destroyed breakfast, the first in the line of many, many more, and feel the same exhaustion weighing them down, the fatigue following a long run, the tiredness after a stressful day. They travelled the world to escape what haunted them and were crowned with success, now finally allowed to rest.

“Let’s go sleep”, Dom suggests and Monty just nods.


End file.
